Dre and I have already gotten super used to baby-wearing, so using the stroller felt like a huge novelty. You mean, the baby sits in there? And I push this thing? And we walk behind it?
I would be foolish to think that hair is more important than the precious time I have with my son, but I know who I am as an individual, as a mother and most importantly as a role model for my son.
I am not a shy, vulnerable, brittle diabetic. I am fierce, and I am looking for my fellow fierce, pancreatic-challenged tribe.
I wrote three pages for my novel this morning. Not in the loveliness of silence and time to myself where the brain is functioning and uninterrupted. No. I wrote in the chaos of post-breakfast, children running around the house pretending to be dinosaurs or cats or superheroes or whatever it was they were pretending to be.
The hardest part of being a mother is trying to be a mother. Let me clarify: The hardest part of being a mother is trying to be the mother everyone tells you you must be.
I left the music festival because it was too loud: Untangling the threads of a impending offbeat mama identity crisis
My identity as an electronic music fan (yes, ok fine: raver) dates back to 1996. But things shifted when I got pregnant.
It’s OK to absolutely freaking love being a Mom. You can do that, and embrace it, and that experience can define you as much as other experiences in your life. It’s not mutually exclusive to being your own woman and your own individual.